


Low

by TVateMyBrain (datsunblue)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sounds charming doesn't it?, Suicide, it gets better though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datsunblue/pseuds/TVateMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock missed something he really shouldn't have. Now cracks are appearing and it's all his fault. (It's not really, but...   well.)</p>
<p>(Mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts, depression. Consider yourself warned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cracks

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand apologies, I have no beta.

It starts with a slip. Well, no not really. Maybe it really started that day at Bart's, with the question “Afghanistan or Iraq?”. Maybe it just fell into place, with a slip.

Sherlock is standing in the kitchen, having just put his mug of tea down on the counter, when John comes in, in his dressing gown. He opens his mouth to warn John not to step in the puddle (spilled experiment), but it's too late. An exhausted John starts to slide towards him, and Sherlock instinctively lunges to catch him.  
He manages to arrest the fall. One arm under John's armpit, and John's cheek smashing against his shoulder painfully. They both freeze, mentally scanning for damage, or so Sherlock thinks. John is struggling with something else.  
A crack has opened up somewhere inside him, letting out a wave of despair. He struggles to keep a rein on it, swallow it back down, like he has been doing for weeks. Months. But the shock of Sherlock's hands on him, around him...... no one has touched him in.... a long while. Since Mary, and he's so tired, so tired, and he feels himself letting go. Just a little, he thinks, and then stiff upper lip and soldier on. Take a deep breath, he thinks. But his chest trembles on the inhale, and he knows Sherlock will feel it, and he can't look him in the eye just now, so he holds his position. Head tucked down, just resting against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's robe bunched tight in his right hand, he let's his left hand come to rest on the other man's shoulder. Fingers digging in like he's going to drown.

“John?” Sherlock's concern echoes very slightly off the kitchen cupboards. “Alright?”, and the sound of him swallowing seems very loud to his own ears. John feels the movement of Sherlock's throat, the rumble of his words, and it only drives the crack in him wider. His eyes prickle, hot and sharp, and he tries to draw another shaking breath to apologise, to say he doesn't know what's wrong with him, but all that comes out is a strangled sob.

Sherlock feels John breaking down in his arms, and instinctively grips him tighter, trying to hold him together through strength of will. Stupid, stupid! He thinks, why didn't I see this coming? Almost a year since John came back to Baker Street, since Mary left, and John hasn't been on any dates. Has hardly even been out to the pub. It's just work, and home, and cases with Sherlock. The work used to be enough, to keep John on an even keel. Well, not even, but, afloat anyway. It was good, before Mary. But now he thinks of the dark circles under John's eyes. The clumsy hands. The silence where idle chat used to exist between them. He had been so glad to have John back, that he had let himself accept the changes. When really, they weren't acceptable at all. Mary was supposed to give John everything he wanted. Instead she had broken him. And Sherlock had allowed it to happen.

“I'm sorry,” He whispers to John as he holds him tight, “I'm so sorry.”  
John is bewildered. Lost and bewildered. He doesn't know why he is crying, and he doesn't know why Sherlock is apologising. He just knows he can't let go just yet.

* * *  
Later, when John stops crying, and starts saying things like “I don't know what got into me” and “I must just be over-tired or something” and “Maybe I'm coming down with something”, Sherlock sits him down on the couch and makes him some tea. John hears him make the phone call to the surgery, explaining that John has come down with a stomach bug and it currently throwing up his toenails, and might be off for a few days judging by the severity of his retching. He is both mortified, and grateful. When Sherlock drags the duvet off his bed and curls up next to John on the couch, throwing the duvet over them both and pressing play on the laptop, John really can't bring himself to move, or even ask what's going on. Sherlock has lined up three Bourne movies, and John falls asleep to the sound of gunfire and Sherlock's breathing.

It's late afternoon when he fully opens his eyes again. Sherlock is still there next to him. In fact, John's head seems to be using Sherlock's shoulder as a pillow, and there is a crik in his neck. Feeling a bit embarrassed, he stretches and gets up to use the bathroom.  
“Hungry?” Calls Sherlock after him. John just shrugs. In the bathroom, he stares into the mirror, barely recognising himself. This is bad, he thinks. Maybe it's time to try anti-depressants or something. Maybe tomorrow he'll look for a new therapist. Right now he just wants to close his eyes and feel nothing.  
“I ordered Chinese.” says Sherlock, as John climbs back into the warm nest of the couch. “Ok.” says John, as if agreeing, but really, it's easy when the decision is already made. He lays down with his head at the end of the couch, and his legs curled up against Sherlock's warm thighs. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock gives him some more duvet, and the corners of John's mouth lift just a little bit, of their own accord. “Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” John's eyes are closed, so he doesn't see the half smile that appears on Sherlock's face when he looks at John.

Later, Sherlock hands John a plate of food, which disappears with a kind of mindless mechanical movement that Sherlock finds a bit disturbing. He suspects that if he asked John what he just ate, he wouldn't be able to answer. Sherlock curls up with his laptop while John idly channel surfs, stopping on some sort of documentary before drifting of to sleep again. When Sherlock gets up from the couch John wakes.  
“Go brush your teeth. It's bedtime.” John looks at him bewildered.  
“Who says?”  
“Well, me. Obviously.” He rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, but John just blinks at him until Sherlock slaps his thigh.  
“Ow!” John's eyes are suddenly more alert than they've been all day. “Alright! Alright! No need for domestic abuse.” He grumbles, but he gets up and heads to the bathroom. While he's gone, Sherlock races upstairs as quietly as he can to retrieve John's gun and stash it in his own room. He hides the bullets behind some of the books on the bookshelf. When John comes out of the bathroom, he slips past him to brush his own teeth and ready himself for bed. When he comes out, John has already gone upstairs. Sherlock grabs the duvet and climbs the stairs after him.

“What are you doing?” sighs John, as Sherlock climbs into the bed next to him. Sherlock says nothing, just lies back and waits for John to draw a conclusion. After a while of John staring at him and Sherlock staring at the ceiling, John says “Look, you don't have to worry about me.... you know. Take the gun if you want. I'm.........” He sighs again. “You already took the gun didn't you?”

Sherlock doesn't look at him. The fact that they are lying here in John's bed, talking about suicide.... it's on the very edge of too much. Sherlock is blinking rapidly, his lips pinched together.

“I wouldn't... do that to you Sherlock. I know what it's like. When you were gone......” And John turns away from him, curling up around the pain. Sherlock can't have this space opening up between them again. He reaches out towards John, a hand on his shoulder, rubbing softly, and John shakes.  
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't know...” He rolls towards John, folds an arm over him, and pulls him against his chest, resting his forehead between John's shoulder blades. John doesn't resist, and they lie that way, with Sherlock angled across the bed, and John curled up, as the tension eases, and their breath slows and unconsciously begins to sync up. They both drift off to sleep with the lamp on. Sherlock an anchor, and John a buoy in a dark sea.


	2. Fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh....yeah... so. I didn't realize anyone was actually following this story until I took a look at my stats page. So, once I realized I had subscribers, I thought I better continue with it. It's kind of hard to write, in that I can only squeeze out a couple of paragraphs at a time. But here you go, here's a little bit more.

Maybe it was the fall. Because afterwards, John slipped into a kind of unreality for a while. It was nothing like anything he experienced in the Army. Over there, when faced with something awful, his brain would say “How do I fix this?”. When Sherlock fell (jumped), his brain simply said “This is not happening.”  
When Sherlock returned, he'd though his brain must have been right all along. Except sometimes he would catch himself thinking Sherlock was still dead, (Not still dead, because he hadn't been, had he?), and it was a little like that now. How else to explain this presence beside him, except as a ghost? He has to reach out and touch him, just to confirm he really is there. 

When Sherlock turns towards him and opens his eyes, John has to think of something to say to justify it.

“You want some tea?” is what he croaks out, and Sherlock nods, so now John has to get up.

Sherlock comes down as he's adding the milk. He squeezes John's shoulder as he passes, studied, casual, and peers into the fridge. Unsatisfied with the contents, he opens a cupboard instead.

“Porridge?” He says.

“I didn't know you knew how to make porridge.” John is teasing, but Sherlock's reply is “I don't.” 

Which means of course that he expects John to make it, and John really, really can't be fucked with it, and is about to tell Sherlock where to stick it, when suddenly a sense memory comes to him unbidden. The warm nutty smell of hot porridge with brown sugar melting on top. Contrast that against the alternative, which is a trip to Tescos. John sighs, and gets out a pan and the oats.

“I think,” He says “I'm going to make an appointment with a new therapist. Someone Mike mentioned a while ago.” John waits for Sherlock's reaction, but doesn't turn around to look at him. He would find out anyway, so there's no point in keeping it to himself.

“I think,” says Sherlock, “that sounds like an excellent idea.” And he's thinking both how he wishes John could talk to him more, and knowing he would find it tedious after a while, and would probably start saying all the wrong things. Then he thinks of something he screamed at Mycroft down the phone from rehab. You can't fix me! I have to fix myself!

John makes the phone call after they've eaten their porridge, though Sherlock barely finishes half his bowl, and John rolls his eyes at him. The day is spent lounging around, reading, watching telly, and staring out the window. When Sherlock suggests a walk, John refuses. The weather outside is crap. Sherlock retaliates by starting an experiment in the kitchen, so they have to order takeaways for dinner again. John goes up to bed early, but can't seem to go properly to sleep. He ends up reading until who knows when, because he wakes again when Sherlock climbs into the bed.

“What are you doing?” He mutters, groggy. 

Sherlock takes the book off John's chest, where it has fallen, and puts it on the night stand.

“Can't sleep.” He says, turning off the light and rolling over.

John blinks in the darkness, trying to decipher this, gives up and rolls over.

It's very early when he wakes again to the warmth of Sherlock's back pressed along his arm and shoulder. He turns to look at the back of Sherlock's head, the dark curls nestled against the nape of his neck, exposed where his pyjama collar is twisted askew. He thinks of that skull cracked on the pavement, and reaches out to thread his fingers past the curls, fingertips tracing the skull. Sherlock's breathing stutters, and John removes his fingers. He drifts off, but wakes again an hour later with a bulge in his pants. Sherlock is still asleep, so John tries to creep out of bed without waking him, heading down to the bathroom for a shower and a bit of relief. He has to meet his new therapist in a couple of hours anyway, and he's feeling... strangely okay with that.

* * *

Jeff Burton is in his fifties. A rotund man, no taller than John, with salt and pepper hair (more salt than pepper) and matching whiskers. A little like a young Santa Claus with a much shorter beard, thinks John. His consulting room contains a large bookcase, which fails to contain all the books. An extra pile is stacked on the floor, and more on a side table. John finds this strangely comforting when he measures it against Ella's slightly odd space, with it's wallpaper paneling and modernist furniture. There is a brown leather couch, a bit worn in the arms, and a solid wooden coffee table, with a few different chairs. One chair is quite obviously Jeff's chair (please, call me Jeff), with a side table next to it piled with bits and pieces.

The man has a wide smile, genuine, and broad hands with stubby fingers, that he gestures with a lot. He swears within the first two minutes of John walking in the door, when he offers tea and finds there is no milk. John is warming to him.

* * *

John stops in the park on the way home, thinking over his session. He sits on a bench and considers the question posed by Jeff Burton. What are his plans for the future? His short term goals? Longer term goals?

Since he moved back to Baker Street he's been in a kind of holding pattern. Taking it day by day, just hoping one day it will all fall back into place, be like it used to be with him and Sherlock, back before.....

Before the fall. 

There are all these divisions in his life. Before Sherlock died. Before Sherlock came back. Before John got shot. Before he joined the military. Before Mary left. What if he's just living in another before? Waiting for the next thing that happens to cause there to be an after. After Mary shot Sherlock. After Mary lost the baby. After the divorce papers came in the mail.

* * *

He has a nightmare that night. Not the Afghanistan one. The other one.

As Sherlock's head is hitting the pavement, he hears the man's voice, echoing around him. 

“.....just a dream. John. Wake up now. It's just a dream.”

“Sherlock!” The cry tears from his throat, almost a sob.

“I'm here. I'm here. It's okay. You were dreaming.” 

John finds he is sitting up in bed, with Sherlock perched on the edge of it, turned towards him. John has both hands clutched at Sherlock's shoulders, nails digging into flesh through the blue robe he wears.

“Christ. Sorry.” His voice shakey, he releases Sherlock. But Sherlock doesn't release him. Long fingers are wrapped around his biceps, steadying him. John gulps air, willing his heartbeat to return to normal. He realizes his cheeks are wet with tears, and brushes them away with the back of his hand, pulls back from Sherlock to lay back down. He places an arm across his eyes, blocking out the light of the lamp.

“I'm sorry if I woke you, I just....”

“You didn't wake me, I was up.”

He hears Sherlock moving around, and then the shift of the mattress as he climbs into bed beside John.

“Turn out the light.”

John leans over to turn off the lamp, and flops back, to let his breathing settle with the warmth of Sherlock by his side. Warm and whole, with his brains inside his skull where they should be, and not splattered all over the pavement.


End file.
